Tension Release
by kkolmakov
Summary: What did our two clueless lovers do while separated for three mounts? Companion piece to "Thorin's Morning After" *No Infringement Intended* At least a two-piece. Only laughs and dalliances!
1. Thorin: Day 65 out of 92

The treacherous organ just wouldn't yield. Thorin is staring at the ceiling, clenching teeth and futilely attempting to ignore the raging erection. The tent of his covers is hard to disregard though, the malevolent appendage even dares to slightly twitch demanding attention.

The first one woke him up just before dawn. Half asleep, with the licentious images from him dream still floating in his mind, he slowly and lavishly brought himself to release. Sleep came readily afterwards, with her soft and warm body easy to image curled up into his side.

The second one woke him up an hour later, the first noises of the morning bursting outside. He squeezed his eyes, evoked his favourite fantasy of plunging into her from behind and with quick jerky strokes he satisfied his hunger. Drowsiness heavily pressed on him after that, and he allowed himself some more half-sleep, half peevish grouching.

What is he supposed to do with the third one? He has no desire to give in every time his body decided to succumb to lewd cravings. He is not a mindless youngling to roll over and spend hours exercising his imagination and playing with himself. He growls. Even naming it in his head feels humiliating.

It had never before been a problem, urges appeared, the problem was dealt with. He is a grown-up Dwarf and it is natural. As older dwarves say, wait for a wife and practice your swording. After one night with her his body is railing, the salacious memories and even more colourful fantasies leaving him hardly functional.

The first moon of the three she imposed on him was easy. Mahal help him, he even thought her wise! Preparation were to be made, thoughts to be organized, pleasant memories to go back to. Occasionally, within the borders of sanity. He felt proud and maybe just a little smug thinking of their night together. He performed well, if her soft cries and grateful looks were any indication.

After a moon and a half the pleasant memories have become a haunting nightmare. His body and mind in a conspiracy against him, everything arounds him reminds of her. The fabrics of his clothes, the texture of food, the pillow, the covers, she is everywhere, her body, her skin, her breasts, her folds… Mahal, help him!

Thorin grabs his already oversensitive shaft and hisses. Is it possible to be in pain and aroused at the same time? Apparently, yes. He closes his eyes and wills the memories. Let us just get it over with. But his mind plays an even dirtier trick. Instead of an almost impersonal set of curves and folds, the traitorous memory shows him the healer, fully dressed, laughing, her head dropped back in unrestrained merriment. That day he was visiting his warriors in the infirmary and found her sitting at the end of a bed. She is laughing at an unknown joke, her curls bouncing, hazel eyes sparkly, and she is pressing her palm to her perky little breasts.

Right, good, concentrate on the breasts. Stop pining and deal with the problem at hand. Thorin cringes. He hates puns. The healer loves puns. Once he overheard her saying she was short of necessary skills to reach a high shelf. She gave a sweet little giggle after that and blushed.

Thorin rolls on his stomach and moans into the pillow. Stop it, how old are you? You are turning two hundred next year, and the next thing you are going to do is writing songs about her smiles. Breasts and buttocks, think of those, release the tension and get up! The forges reconstruction is falling behind the schedule, the trade treaty with Dale needs revision, Balin wanted to have a discussion of some new maps of Khazad-dum found in the library.

Thorin starts going through the errands of the day, his arousal and the healer forgotten. He notices a parchment of the floor, it rolled off the table last night and gets up to look it over again. Mindlessly getting dressed, he is busy planning ahead but then halts and allows himself one little weakness. The calendar is on the table and he indulges himself. One glance. There are twenty seven days left till the autumnal equinox.


	2. Wren: Day 48 out of 92

**A/N: Have you noticed in the previous chapter that Thorin admits that he feels "**_**just a little **_**smug" and remembers her "soft cries and grateful looks"? :) The self-assurance of men! Not exactly what she took from that night… :)**

Your foot skids on a wet board of a log bridge and you slide into the ditch, scooping the dirty, foul smelling water into your favourite ankle boot. You sink up to your knee and have to balance awkwardly not to dunk your healer's sack. The rain is pouring on your head, and you hate your life.

You pull your leg out and stomping head to the door of a small house you are dwelling this week. The trip is a disaster. This year's excessive rain is ruining the harvest of many essential herbs. You spent the morning in the woods, soaking and cold, to no avail. You came back with the basket empty, irritated beyond measure. And then on your round to visit the patients, you had to excuse yourself and leave a room twice just so that you wouldn't start screaming. The overall stupidity of people is driving you mad. No, you do not eat roasted duck if your stomach hurts and you spent the previous night violently vomiting! No, you cannot forget to take your herbs for three days and then take them all together! Are you trying to kill yourself? No, you still can get pregnant even though he promised he will to be careful!

In the village you are staying, up to this moment, besides the usual inquiries you had to deal with a suspicious abscess, a size of a mouse, two cases of severe loveitch and a woman who thought she was growing horns.

You are drenched, tired and very very, hungry. You storm inside only to find a basket where you usually keep food empty. "Thea!" You roar across the tiny dining room. Your friend decided that a trip to the country would be a wonderful distraction, as according to her she is tired of your erratic behaviour. How going to the country with you and staying crammed in a tiny house for a week is a solution to this problem, you do not know. But when Thea decides on something, Thea gets it.

You receive no answer from the ever so jovial daughter of Dale. You cautiously peek in the bedroom but it is empty. Never a good sign with Thea. A libidinous voluptuous temptress sauntering around a village full of narrow-minded, reactionary residents is a recipe for a disaster. You would even take finding her in the bedroom you share, wrapped around some lad from the village over her going on an adventure. At least that time you were fast enough to avert your eyes, and did not see much. Not that there was much to see. You have seen better. Oh Valar, the things you have seen not that long ago under velvet garments of a certain Dwarf!

In Thea's words, you now have two interchanging states of mind. The "sulking sailor's bride state", which implies moping around, sad sighs heaving your chest, and "what am I doing giving up my life for a Dwarf frenzy" that manifests in overworking and repeatedly packing and unpacking your belongings. Unfortunately, she is not too far from the truth. She is also right about another thing, which you will never admit to her. Half of the time you are so angry because you are uncontrollably aroused. May be more than a half.

The last time you bedded a man was forty seven days ago, and no, you are not counting. You keep telling yourself that it is ridiculous, since you somehow had survived without a man for years before that memorable night in your inn room and a wee bit more of the same treat couple days later on the floor. All right, there was nothing wee about what transpired on the floor. And then on the bed. And on the floor again. And against the wall. Oh, that one was especially good! Pull your head out of your gutter, Wren! The point is that you are not an overzealous libidinous youngling and you have more important things to worry about.

Which cannot be more true, since in your entanglement with a certain Dwarf the carnal endeavours are in actually the simplest part. The rest is a confusing and emotionally draining can of worms. Well, may be that is a bit too harsh. A bag of kitten. Soft, warm, furry, sexy kittens. Oh Maiar, you have issues!

You inspect the kitchen and find two sets of dirty plates and cutlery. That explains it. Thea and her most recent victim had dinner, ate all your food and thankfully left for their next activities not to traumatize you. Where would you go in this rain? But again, it is the company that matters. You shake your head to rid yourself of a mental image of roughly fornicating with the Dwarven King in the middle of a field with rain pouring on your heated naked bodies, his luscious strands heavy, water trickling from them on the coarse chest hair and the rock hard pectoral muscles…

You kick a chair. And then again. If he was allowed to lose his composure, you are entitled to a little of rage as well! Since in your case assaulting furniture only leads to pain and purple bruises on your white skin, you look around the room looking for a helpless target. You mentally see the empty food basket shrinking from you in terror.

You grab the handle and bursting the door open you throw your victim into the puddles on the ground. Then you proceed violently kicking it around the yard, yelling very mild curses. You are not good at swearing.

"Self-assured, conceited, cantankerous Dwarf!.. Stupid, cowardly, indecisive Wren!.. Traditionalistic, unprogressive, narrow-minded Dwarves!.. Gorgeous, concupiscent, boisterous Thorin!.." Well, that is just sad, Wren, these are not even insults!

"You do realize that that is not how people swear?" Thea's tone is sarcastic. She is leaning on the wattle fence. She looks very pleased with herself. You are afraid to even think what this cat has done to the cream that she got today. Poor lad probably will not recover for a week. "You are supposed to mention private parts and insult close relatives."

You are breathing heavily and feel very sorry for yourself. Thea lifts a basket in her hand. "We have chicken and I brought your favourite seed cake." Well, it least you will eat. Other hungers will just have to just shut it.


	3. Thorin: Day 78 out of 92

**A/N: This one is pure angst. I was sad. No humour or glee here at all. Make an informed choice whether to read it.**

Thorin does not have dreams. He has nightmares. They come rarely, when he is overtired or apprehensive, and then the old battles replay in his mind. The Battle of Azanulbizar, his brother's and grandfather's deaths, the fight with the Pale Orc, the Battle of Five Armies, and multitude of others, hundreds of scars covering his body, they return and, ever changing, they torment him in endless repetitions, their resolutions always different and elusive. Sometimes he seems to save Frerin, sometime Thror, but he always ends up with a blooded corpse in his hands. There is always a funeral pyre. Sometimes Fili and Kili are on it. His dreams are short, more flashes than actual occurrences, but he wakes up, cold sweat on his forehead, fists clenched, palms clammy. He lies and stares at the ceiling, willing his breathing to slow down.

The first dream he has that does not make him wake up with a jerk grasping for his dagger under the pillow happens when he is awaiting the memorable autumnal equinox in Erebor. He returns to his chambers after a long day of coordinating renovations, reviewing treaties, overseeing the construction of a new passage, and he falls in his bed, so exhausted that a thought of getting up and undressing is inconceivable. He falls into deep slumber before he can feel his breath bounce off the pillow, and that is the night when it comes.

The red haired healer is sprawled on a field with some purple flowers bobbing their heads in a soft summer breeze. The unruly curls are splayed among the flowers. She turns her smiling face to him, and he wakes up. There is no spasmodic movement, he just opens his eyes and sees the blackness around him. It is probably just after midnight. For a second he does not understand, and then he quickly closes his eyes again, hoping she will come back.

She does not, and he forgets about it, Erebor busily hustling around him. He barks orders, argues with Balin, encourages and teaches Fili and Kili, and orders chambers to be prepared for her. No one questions his command, and he even feels that Dwalin and Balin approve of the upcoming changes. He chooses chambers in the same passage as his, contemptuously daring any Dwarf to challenge him. No one does.

The next dream comes when he falls asleep in his study, having dropped his head on his arms, his plate with unfinished dinner propped on a pile of papers covering his table. The healer is moving in front of him, they are in the Northern passages of Erebor, and she is laughing. He stretches his palm towards her, but she turns around yet another corner, every time her skirts and strands just an inch away from his greedy hand. And then he presses her body into the wall, and wakes up. Again, he just opens his eyes and stares at the wall of his study.

The feeling of her body locked between him and the cold stone is so vivid that it feels he can clench his hand and his palm will meet her warm skin. He sits up, closes his eyes and tries to bring the feeling back. Then he shakes his head, feeling like a fool. He blows out the candle and goes to bed. He buries his face in the pillow and stubbornly does not hope for another dream.

It comes, hot and lustful, her burning body writhing underneath him, her nails clawing at his shoulders, loud moans and wide open eyes with immense black pupils. He wakes up with a groan and an arduous erection. Almost against his will his hand moves to his shaft, and when his hand encircles it he closes his eyes in shame. He feels that she probably would not enjoy being a crude fantasy for such crass act of self-gratification. But his hand starts moving and in second a violent release shakes his body, never before his hand bringing him so much pleasure. He is gasping for air and the muscles in his abdomen are trembling. He cleans up and decides to never think of it again.

The next night she is straddling him, her firm little buttocks fitting in his palms perfectly, and he stares at her throat, her head dropped back. It is just a flash, her pale delicate throat, and he wakes up and comes within seconds.

After that he gives up his attempts to abandon the repugnant addiction, and welcomes the dreams. As little practical experience as he has, that one night gave him enough material, his imagination filling in the gaps. He learns that imagining her mouth on his cock will leave him more satisfied, while thinking of taking her roughly from behind will bring the release faster.

Sometimes he wonders what she does to relieve the fever, and whether she even feels the same torturous hunger. She had lovers before, she told him while her deft fingers were working on the small buttons on the collar of his tunic. She screamed into his face that there was only one when he accused her of wantonness. Does she think about him when she needs to alleviate the craving? He has nothing but her body to think of, and sometimes he feels like crushing and breaking everything in his chambers from the ache and the starvation he feels. Does she alternate between her memories of him and the other when her fingers are stroking her hot folds?

Sometimes he hates her. Her smiling eyes, soft lips, the small hands with surprisingly strong fingers. He feels trapped, crippled, helpless. He can make her stay with him, he already convinced her, she promised. He somehow does not doubt her word, almost not believing his own trust in her himself. He just needs to wait till the equinox, and he will go and take her.

She will be in those chambers, and he can go and see her any time he wants. Touch her, press her into sheets, seize her, feel powerful again. Sometimes he just wants to scream and smash every dish into a wall.

Sometimes the dreams are light, sunny, she is sitting on a bench, and her delicate fingers are braiding flowers into her plait. He saw her doing it when she was attending to his warriors. He was leaving the infirmary and ran into her, the brown eyes flew wide and she gave him a nervous smile. Her fingers were fluttering through the flaming curls, and with a sudden clarity he saw a pulse frantically beating on the side of her neck.

He was pressing his mouth to that spot again and again that night, his hands grabbing her shoulders. Was he hurting her then? Probably. The next morning he saw angry bruises all over her body. The teeth marks, the prints of his fingers on her smooth skin, the purple and red on her white. He felt a scorching wave of shame licking the back of his neck, but she smiled into his eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. How can she be so trusting and forgiving?

He hates that he does not understand her. In his mind people are simple, good or evil, honourable or vile, cowards or warriors. She is like water you try to scoop from a river. The blush on her cheeks he saw when she would walk into a room and did not expect to see him there, the lustful screams and arched back when he was thrusting into her, her lips pressed in indignation when he was unfair to a warrior in front of her, the same lips wrapped around his cock, big brown eyes closed from, Mohal forgive, pleasure of sucking on him… The picture is etched in his brain of her long black lashes lying under her eyes in thick soft shadows, while her lips are moving, soft moans in her throat sending waves of almost painful pleasure through his shaft, and then the brown eyes fly open and staring at him she sneaks out her pink tongue out of those lips and it swirls around his head.

He grasps his cock and silences his doubts, his fears, his insecurity. He imagines her warm arms around his neck, her strong limber legs hugging his waist, her eyes guileless and ardent and his name on her lips. There are fourteen days left till the autumnal equinox.


End file.
